Bacon Sandwiches, And Other Stories
by Witchy Bee
Summary: Mini-drabbles - Features Moist von Lipwig and many more characters. Hogswatch edition is now up!
1. Chapter 1

**Hope**

It was the best sandwich he'd ever had. The bread was stale and the bacon turned out to be mostly fat, but a last meal was a last meal. The only reason Moist had got one at all was because he knew how people worked, and there was something oddly hopeful about it. They shouldn't hang a man with strings of bacon fat in his teeth, it just wouldn't be fair.

**Fate**

It had never fully occurred to him that he might die here. They honestly did plan to hang him today, and they were so damn friendly about it, too. Well sure, it wasn't the end of the world for them, after all. It was just another day at work for the executioner. But where was the fairness in that? Moist had figured something must come through. Everyone always said million-to-one chances simply had to work, right? It was _fact_, for gods' sake!

**Regret**

Did he actually regret any of it? Not really, although Moist wasn't sure. He regretted getting caught, of course. and he regretted that he'd fallen for the prospect of freedom Vetinari built into the prison because apparently the Patrician was some kind of sadist. There did seem to be, however, a prick of regret in the back of his mind; it had something to do with the money safely hidden, and just a twinge of...well, disappointment. No one would know who was truly hanged here. In time, even the sickeningly honest prison guards would forget Moist...err...Albert Spangler ever existed at all.

**Angels**

Maybe you didn't only get one angel. Pesky little things hovering over your shoulder. Moist figured you probably got as many angels as you could bear. He didn't trust them; they sounded too much like gods. Of course Moist would never actually call himself an atheist because he wanted to live. He wasn't exactly afraid to die anymore, but he was wary of any afterlife that may involve more angels.

**Irony**

The last meal he had as Albert Spangler had been excellent. Now, Moist von Lipwig was sitting at a cafe leafing through a magazine about pins, and the bacon sandwich in front of him seemed all too ordinary. He was ordinary, too, in fact. Just a mere postmaster with a peculiar set of people skills, that's all.

**Karma**

Moist fancied himself a generally decent person who happened to do bad things. Vetinari was right about everyone having a choice, but the world tended to even out in the end, didn't it? His choices were quite clear: death or the post office. So that was it, a strange sort of penance offered by a most unlikely angel. What the hell had Moist ever done to deserve any choice, even the prospect of freedom?

**Victimless**

Moist turned over on a massive pile of ancient letters that night, the golem's words running around in circles inside his skull. _"When Banks Fail, It Is Seldom Bankers Who Starve."_ Moist had always believed his crimes were victimless. _"You Did Not Know Them. You Did Not See Them Bleed. But You Stole Bread From Their Mouths And Tore Clothes From Their Backs."_

Yes, all right, so he swindled and tricked people into giving him their money because, at first, he needed to. Otherwise _he_ would have starved! Then, well, Moist practiced the arts of his trade until frankly it would have been impractical to take up a more honest one. They thought him the fool. That was humanity, or dwarfity or trollity and..._what? Ye gods, why can't I sleep?_

_A million small ways...hastened the death of many...never drawn a sword...  
><em>  
>Hell, his entire livelihood depended on the power of words versus violence. Moist never directly harmed anyone, but of course his actions did have consequences for someone. How many people had the average man unknowingly helped to kill? If you looked out only for yourself, it was inevitable. And if you gave everything you had to others, the life you took was your own. No, Mr. Pump was just plain wrong. What did a golem know about people?<p>

You couldn't murder a fraction of a person, could you? Or was that worse, then?

**Choices**

"Do you think I'm a bad person, Mr. Pump?"

"No, Mr. Lipvig," the golem rumbled. "There Are No Good People And Bad People, Only Choices."

_Now the bloody thing is starting to sound like Vetinari. Well, at least not literally this time._"So what do you think of me, then?" Moist wasn't sure why he cared.

"You Have Made Bad Choices, Mr. Lipvig, But You Have A Chance To Put Things Right."

"I don't have much of a choice now, do I?" Moist frowned. "I have to resurrect the damn post office before it kills me, or drives me mad."

"True, You Cannot Run From Your Punishment." Mr. Pump agreed. "But You Are Alive And Free. And You Do Have A Choice."

"Right," the postmaster smiled cheerfully. "I could always hang."

**Honest**

"Be yourself." sounded to Moist like the worst advice anyone could give, especially to a conman. It was the one thing he seemed to be absolutely terrible at. Lies were all he knew. Moist could never become an honest man, but he had to try to be better for Adora. It was just like attempting the impossible: easy as fooling an honest man.

**Engagement**

As soon as he could, Moist bought a proper ring for Adora. When he presented it to her, she narrowed her eyes.

"It's not glass, is it?"

"Of course not." Moist said. "I swear on my honor as...the postmaster, this is _real_ diamond." After a while Adora's expression sunk in, and his smile faltered. "You don't like it."

"Moist, I don't need diamonds to love you. I agreed to marry you without even a ring. You are one of the most infuriating men I have ever known, yet I still accepted your proposal in the end. I love you despite seeing you in that ridiculous golden suit. So what could you hope to achieve here?"

Moist didn't know. "It's...traditional." he said lamely.

Adora laughed. She was not a traditional woman.

Oh well. Moist supposed he'd learn from such expensive mistakes once they were married.


	2. Chapter 2

**Madness**

"You're utterly mad, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Moist nodded and adjusted his winged hat. "But you've got to be a little mad to work at the Post Office."

"And to be the postmaster's wife, yes?" Adora Belle smiled, then shook her head in the manner of someone who recognizes a completely hopeless case when they see one. "Next you'll be off to deliver mail directly to the gods on Cori Celesti, or the bloody space turtle."

"Don't be silly, what would anyone write to a giant turtle? 'Could you speed up a little, please, we'd really like to answer the ancient question of where exactly it is the Disc is heading, if you even have a destination in mind. Thank you, sir or ma'am; that's another thing we're curious about, by the way.'"

"But if someone were to write such a letter?" Adora Belle demanded. "What then?"

"Then it would be our duty to deliver it, of course," Moist said, knowing there was an unspoken challenge in there somewhere. "We can't have letters piling up again, can we? And it is sort of my job to attempt the impossible."

The next day there was indeed a letter addressed to the Great A'Tuin from none other than Miss Dearheart, all stamped and waiting on his desk. He smiled.

**Gold**

People felt compelled to listen to Moist because...because he knew how to talk to them. He was the man in gold. Moist could smile at a crowd, and with just a few words he'd have them buying up glass like it really was diamond. It was a talent, one Moist could use for the common good, which admittedly, he hadn't very often.

But he did have style. Moist, or rather various aliases he'd created over the years, had found himself in countless bars drinking with fools who thought they were clever until they realized that nice chap they met last night made off with all their money and left them to pay the tab. Then they would grin, because _what_ a story that was!

But of course, they were unlikely to recognize him if they ever saw Moist again. He was generally unremarkable. People only remembered his smile, and his words. They remembered the _gold_. Up until recently, they would have remembered having a lot more of it before meeting him.

**Words**

"I've Worked It Out, Mr. Lipvig,"

"What's that, Mr. Pump?" Moist asked, trying to perfect a new stamp design.

"Since Becoming Postmaster, You Have Extended The Lives Of Twelve Point Two Four Nine People."

He looked up from his desk at the golem's glowing red eyes. Mr. Pump's clay face remained as expressionless as ever. Moist von Lipwig stared, absolutely speechless.

"How do you figure that, Mr. Pump?" he managed after a moment.

"The Letters, Mr. Lipvig. Words Have Power. You Have Given People Hope, Mr. Lipvig."

_Hope_, thought Moist. _People need it to live. That's it, then. I'm still in the business of words. Only this time no one will die and everybody wins._

**Addicted**

"Face it, you're addicted to that warm fuzzy feeling you get from helping people." said Adora Belle, lighting another cigarette. "You crave it almost as much as the feeling you get when lying to them."

_But really I'm doing both_, thought Moist.

Decency was a habit he could give up at any time, Moist told himself. He sometimes wondered when Ankh-Morpork would run out of poorly maintained government positions for him to stumble into, quite gracefully of course, and resurrect thanks to a complete lack of knowledge or bias on the subject.

He took risks; his tongue made absurd promises which forced his brain to jog in order to keep up the pace. Always keep moving, that was the thing, give them a show. Give them something shiny to look at and it's all they will see. If it got boring, that meant the show was over, his work was done.

Then what? He could disappear. Moist could become anyone else quite easily, but perhaps there were a couple of angels who had bigger plans for him...

**Danger**

Talking to Miss Dearheart was like walking on a tightrope over a pit of snakes. And there was nothing else Moist would rather do.

**Death**

He was flying.

MOIST VON LIPWIG?

"Yes? How do you know my name?" He looked around, but the world had become solid darkness. "Where am I? Who the hell are you?"

YOU ARE IN BETWEEN STATES OF BEING. FOR THE MOMENT, YOU ARE DEAD. I AM DEATH. YOU CANNOT FOOL ME.

"I'm dead...for the moment?"

YES. YOU WERE HANGED.

"But I'll be alive, or at least less dead, in another moment?"

DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS, MR. LIPWIG?

"What does that have to do with anything?"

JUST SOMETHING TO CONSIDER.

When Moist regained consciousness in the Patrician's office, he decided this must be Hell.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Here we have something a little different. These few drabbles are mostly centered around Vimes, with the exception of one set during _Hogfather _(the movie version) and a bit from Rincewind. I hope you like them. Please review and let me know.

**Try**

"What is your name, sir?"

"I thought this was supposed to be anonymous."

"Just tell us your first name and why you're here tonight."

"My name is Sam and..." Vimes scanned the roomful of pathetic faces, many of them he'd chased down dark alleys with the wet cobbles beneath his boots. This was not how he should be spending his nights, but he couldn't stand that disappointed look in Sybil's eyes anymore. "I'm a really suspicious bastard."

The group's leader didn't even blink. "Why are you here, Sam?"

"I promised my wife I'd stop drinking." Vimes said, then after a pause he added, "I suppose I could use a little help."

"And why do you drink?"

"Because..." Vimes thought about it. "Because I've seen enough of what goes on in the shadows of this city. It's no life, being a copper. There's no justice anymore. I don't know if there ever was, but now if people have money and power they can get away with murder. The gods get away with even worse. And I'm the only thing standing in their way."

"What made you decide to stop?"

"Stop what? Policing? Nah, I'm still doing it despite the cost to my sanity."

"I was referring to the alcohol."

"Oh, yeah, right...I met Sybil." he said. "I married the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. I have a reason to come home now; a bunch of dragons and the most patient, caring woman in the world waiting for me. I know I don't deserve any of it, but I damn well am gonna try."

**Teatime**

"Everything seems...so much clearer now," he said, smiling dreamily.

HINDSIGHT WILL DO THAT. SO WILL HAVING YOUR SOUL SEPARATED FROM YOUR MIND.

"I spent hours of my life plotting to kill you. It all just sounds silly, doesn't it?"

INDEED.

"I suppose I'll be going to Hell, then?"

OH?

"Well, yes. I killed so many people...fairies...and animals."

DO YOU REGRET ANY OF IT?

"Why? Would it change anything? I've always been that way. I hurt people before they can hurt me. It _is_a shame about the animals, though. Some of them wanted to be my friend."

I THINK YOU MAY FIND A FEW EMPATHETIC INDIVIDUALS WHERE YOU'RE GOING. IF YOU HURRY, YOU MAY EVEN ARRIVE BY TEATIME.

The shade of Jonathan Teatime gave Death a menacing look.

THAT WAS A PUNE, OR A PLAY ON WORDS, explained Death. Perhaps a part of him wanted to get back at this man who set cats on fire, tried to kill Susan and destroy the human ability to believe in fantasy. Of course that wasn't entirely fair either; Teatime's broken mind had just been a tool of the Auditors.

"I think we should be going. It won't do to be late."

YES, BUT YOU MUST GO ALONE. GOODBYE, MR. TE-AH-TIM-EH.

The shade smiled as he faded into dark, sweet oblivion. Death did not, in fact, know much about what was on the other side. He turned around; Susan was watching him.

"More tea, Grandfather?" she asked.

VERY WELL. THEN I WILL TAKE THE BODY.

"We can't have the neighbors asking inconvenient questions, can we?"

INDEED.

**Sane**

_It would be so nice_, Vimes thought, _if even one criminal we tracked down turned out to be sane. _Just for a change, why couldn't a murderer say, "All right, yes, I killed the bloke, and I've got a perfectly sensible motive for it, too, thank you very much.'

But he supposed every Watchmen was a bit crazy, too. You had to be in order to give up all hope of an existence during daylight hours of normal Ankh-Morpork society. That was okay with him, because this was his world, his city; these were _his_ lunatics.

**Boring**

"When I die," said Rincewind, "And I'm not saying I want that to be soon, although the world seems awfully set against me on this point," he added quickly. "But when I die, I hope nothing happens afterward."

"Nothing?" squeaked Twoflower, appalled at his guide's sense of adventure, or lack thereof. "You mean, nothing at all? Nothing to do or to see? I must say that sounds rather boring."

"Exactly!" the failed wizard grinned. "I want to go to the most boring place in existence. That way nothing bad can happen, see?"

"But nothing good could happen either," the tourist countered. "Besides, you'd already be dead, so what could possibly happen to you that would be bad?"

"Oh, believe me," Rincewind looked up at the sky. "Someone up there is already thinking of a ways to make my afterlife miserable, and they won't even have to worry about the limits of what mortals can stand. I wonder if I could run through existence..."

"Maybe you should just focus on staying alive, in that case." Twoflower said helpfully..

"Yeah, good plan, but I don't think being here right now is helping much."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **More Adora and Moist for you! I'm not sure if I like the last drabble or not, but please review and let me know your thoughts.

**Cravings**

Moist ran through the streets of Ankh-Morpork wearing the clothes he wore when he didn't want to be recognized, cursing whatever god decided pregnant women should have such absurd cravings at all hours of the night. Where the hell was he supposed to find a Dibbler's sausage inna bun at three eh em?

**Adrenaline**

Adora didn't care if Moist sometimes picked the locks on his own damn bank, as long as the paperwork got done and such a pastime didn't start to negatively impact his various government jobs.

She understood that he needed this; sneaking around like a criminal and trying to dodge the guards kept him sane. Occasionally he just had to step out of himself for a while, and she didn't blame him. In some ways, he lived for those moments of pure adrenaline you get when you realize you might die.

Yes, Adora didn't mind, as long as he came back to her and the baby. Moist loved them, but she also knew his worst fear was one day he'd wake up and that just wouldn't be enough.

**Torture**

He'd been thrilled when she told him; they were going to have a baby! A healthy baby with a perfectly ordinary name, that's what Moist imagined. But first came nine months of torture. One moment, Adora would look as if she might cry, and then throw one of her shoes at him which, assuming he ducked in time, usually ended up sticking heel-first out of the nearest wall.

Compared to that, his new position of Taxmaster was easy; all he had to do was what he'd always done, talk to people, give them what they wanted and so forth. All Adora Belle wanted was a cigarette, but the midwife had strictly forbidden it, and there was nothing he could say to make this situation any better.

**Neighbors**

Sybil came back from feeding the dragons and was approached immediately by Wilikins who told her that Mrs. Lipwig was waiting in the parlor. Indeed, Adora Belle stood, smoking a cigarette.

"I thought I should tell you that my husband won't be joining us for dinner tonight," she said, exhaling blue smoke. "Some slight trouble at the bank, he says, and probably an appointment with Vetinari as a result. You know how it goes."

Sybil _did_ know. "Yes, Sam can't make it either. Watch business, as always."

"Oh." said Adora. "Well, I hope it's nothing serious."

"So do I." Sybil replied. "The situation at the bank, I mean, for Mr. Lipwig."

Adora laughed. "I'm not worried. Moist has been through much worse, and the gods seem to like him. He tends to shine in hopeless moments; it sounds impossible, but somehow everyone walks away smiling."

Silence passed while Sybil considered this and Mrs. Lipwig lit another cigarette. Then the two women decided to sit down and have a drink. Why couldn't they enjoy a nice evening, just because their husbands were out being silly? They were neighbors, after all. Moist had recently found himself moving up in the world, which also involved moving into a big house.

"How is married life treating you?"

"I have a lot more rooms to myself."

Sybil found this answer struck an empathetic cord with her as well. Sam was almost always at one Watch House or another, and Moist spent more nights at the bank than not.

"I just wish he wouldn't put himself in danger all the time." Sybil said aloud.

"Coppers and crooks, torn from the same cloth, some say." Adora shrugged. "So perhaps our men need a little danger to feel alive. They always come home, and that's what matters."

"And if...he didn't?"

"Well I don't know about you," Mrs. Lipwig grinned. "But if that happened, Moist had better pray he really he was dead. We all need a little danger, don't we? My shoes double as weapons, for example, and you have your dragons."

"Oh but they're quite sweet, actually." the duchess said defensively, but only got a knowing smile in return.

"I'm sure they are."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **The majority of these next drabbles follow a of sort of story. Forgive me for what I've done here; I assure you it will probably be reversed in future chapters. Also, thanks so much for all your reviews!

**L-space**

The problem, as the Librarian saw it, was the people never learned from libraries; they focused too much on the books. Unseen University's Library was not just a mere trap for reckless researchers. In fact, it held some of the most dangerous magic known to exist, the kind that didn't explode in a shower of octorine sparks***** but did leave greasy traces of condensed magical energy in the air. Even wizards tended to underestimate the great power of so many words in any given space, although the space within the Library was said to be endless, spread about various spaces and times in several dimensions.  
><strong><br>_**  
><strong>*<strong>However, the most dangerous tomes _were_ known to bite unwary fingers, and thus had to be kept chained up for their own protection.

**Appointment**

"Sir?"

YES, ALBERT?

"Um, it seems you've got an appointment with Havelock Vetinari."

I WAS NOT AWARE OF ANY APPOINTMENT WITH HIM.

Death's manservant shrugged. "Apparently most people ain't, sir."

STRANGE...USUALLY IT'S THE OTHER WAY AROUND. SUICIDE, PERHAPS?

"That's pretty unlikely, sir, if you don't mind me sayin'."

When Death rode up to the Palace in Ankh-Morpork on his white horse, he found the Patrician's shade already waiting for him, watching his city from a large window. Well, it wasn't really Vetinari's city now, was it? But Lipwig would ensure that it continued to _work_ just as it had before.

Vetinari turned, glancing briefly at his own lifeless body slumped over the desk, then faced the robed skeletal figure, and flashed a smile.

"You're late," said the Patrician.

MOST PEOPLE ARE NOT EXPECTING ME. ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, I DIDN'T HAVE TO WAIT LONG.

"Indeed. This was the only appointment I had scheduled today, but I'm certain you have many more deaths which you must attend, and I think I can find my own way to the afterlife." Again, here Vetinari smiled for a length of time that it would take something far smaller than a grain of sand to measure. "Don't let me detain you."

Death could not shake the feeling that even though he was an anthropomorphic personification and this man was dead, if he wanted to, Havelock Vetinari probably _could_ detain him.

**Wrong**

All the bells in Ankh-Morpork were ringing.

The funeral procession slowly crossed Sator Square and made its way through Ankh-Morpork, the city Lord Vetinari had given his life to because he believed in its people. This city was _his_. As a black coach carrying the casket passed the Shades, even the least patriotic citizens stopped their various criminal activities and silently paid their respects.

Mostly everyone had hated the Patrician, but with him alive they could be sure tomorrow would bring a kind of warm, familiar normality if nothing else. Now they were scared of a future without him. As far as tyranny went, it'd been pretty stable, at least.

Commander Sam Vimes and Moist von Lipwig were thinking the exact same thing.

_Damn, Damn. Damn!_

Vetinari was not _supposed_ to die. It seemed to indicate something fundamentally wrong with the world in general. Vimes scanned the crowd. Sybil stood beside him, crying. Ah, and there was Lipwig, endeavoring to miraculously turn invisible in a black suit. Vimes did feel a bit sorry for the man; Lipwig looked like one of the four elephants, burdened by the weight of the entire bloody Disc on his shoulders.

Of course, this whole thing wasn't exactly going to make life easy for Vimes either. The Watch would be expected to keep the peace in a post-Vetinari city, but that was nothing compared to _ruling_ a post-Vetinari city.

**Fun**

Changes were coming quickly, hopefully so quickly that no one would notice. And here he was again, Acting Patrician Moist von Lipwig, walking Mr. Fusspot.

"Come on now," Moist said, as the dog continued to sniff around a patch of grass in the Palace garden. "There's a pile of paperwork on Vet—on _my_ desk, waiting for me. Fun stuff, you know."

Mr. Fusspot picked up a stick which he set down at Moist's feet.

"Woof," he said happily.

"Well, okay, that would be fun for _you_. Oh don't look at me like that..." Moist knelt down and sighed, knowing he'd lost. "All right, _fine_, but just once. You don't want me to be late for dinner with Adora. You like her, yes?"

"Woof!"

He threw the stick; Mr. Fusspot ran, or rather, hobbled after it. Moist smiled his most natural, motiveless smile. No wonder Vetinari had liked dogs. The dog somehow managed to trick him into a few more rounds of fetch before they returned to the Oblong Office, both quite exhausted.***** But only Mr. Fusspot had the option of curling up for a nap.

When Adora Belle let herself into Moist's office****** she found him fast asleep at his desk. Thankfully, he wasn't drooling on the pile of papers that served as a pillow. Not yet, at least. Before she could think of the best way to take advantage of this situation, Mr. Fusspot hurried over, barking excitedly.

"Hush, you stupid mutt!" Adora Belle hissed, but she was smiling. "If I wanted someone to give me a slobbery kiss, let's just say you wouldn't be my first choice."

Many things were different now, but some weren't. She had every confidence in Moist; he'd figure out how to make the city work even better, and eventually people would forget what it was like before. Although it seemed impossible, Moist loved the challenge of stepping into a role, making necessary changes swiftly, and sometimes failing spectacularly. He would persuade everyone to believe that he was an expert at ruling Ankh-Morpork then, suddenly, he would be.

**_**  
><strong>*<strong>Unlike his predecessor, Moist von Lipwig did require sleep, which he had not been getting an adequate amount of lately.

******Because, really, no clerk was about to tell her when she could and could not see her fiance. If all went as expected, she would soon be known as Lady von Lipwig anyway, and so people tended to look the other way about her continuing to smoke while in the Palace no matter how many time she was thanked for not doing it, among other things.

**Perspective**

Moist never thought he'd be sitting on the other side of the Patrician's desk, in the Patrician's chair, with a half-conscious man across from him who looked exactly like he'd dropped through a trapdoor and somehow taken a wrong turn on his way to Hell. He just blinked without saying a word, and Moist asked a clerk very kindly to fetch the poor man a glass of water. Moist could empathize.

"Wh...?" croaked the formerly condemned swindler, and that was as far as he got before he winced and clutched his neck. Moist looked on apologetically. He _could_stop the practice of hanging altogether, as he was technically a tyrant, but then where would all the criminals be put? The Watch Houses had just a handful of cells, after all, and even that was only a temporary solution. This way might be drastic, but at least they had a chance to become - he hesitated to admit it - decent members of society.

What Moist wanted to say was, _I'm truly sorry about all this and you're welcome. I don't expect you to thank me. To tell you the truth, I feel like a total bastard right now. But I'm giving you a new life whether you want it or not. It won't be easy. You will be continuously challenged everyday, and at night you will wake up gasping for breath just as an invisible rope tightens around your neck. That part doesn't go away, unfortunately. I know you're confused and angry and you want to run, but I urge you to reconsider because it gets so much more interesting. Someday you could be where I am, and this moment will stick in your mind for as long as you live. Speaking of which, see that door behind you...?_

What he said was, "I'd like to talk to you about angels."


	6. Hogswatch Edition!

**A/N:** I present to you...the Hogswatch edition! Well, except this first oneshot, which is just sad.

**Dogs**

Humans used to worship cats, and dogs usually worship humans.

This is why they were chosen to become more than wolves. Well, to humans, that is. Wolves prefer to be wolves. Dogs hold a special place in the hearts of men.

Yet some dogs die alone in the cold city streets after being struck by a cart. Others pass gently from this world beside a warm fire surrounded by a loving family. Dog owners typically believe deceased pets will meet up with them in the afterlife, so it should follow that this is true, but the important question is: what do dogs believe?

There remains debate amongst several major religions in regards to whether or not animals are permitted a place within their perception of paradise, but nevertheless, everything that dies requires some anthropomorphic personification to sort out initial confusion...

A figure pads along on four skeletal paws. It wears a small black cloak, the hood of which conceals most of its furless face. The Death of Dogs carries a tiny scythe between its teeth like a bone. It has come for Wuffles, one of very few living creatures the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork genuinely liked or showed any obvious signs of affection. Vetinari has never been what one might call a sentimental or particularly emotional man, and there is still much paperwork to do, but he owes it to man's best friend; it won't be much longer now.

WOOF.

Wuffles' labored breathing stops entirely. Lord Vetinari's breath hitches as well, but only for a second.

**Belief**

"Oh and I invited Havelock for Hogswatch dinner," Sybil said.

Vimes' natural husbandry response was to reply with "yes, dear. Sounds wonderful" but then he actually _heard_ her. The words somehow managed to slip through all the little information traps in his ears and switched his brain on.

"I doubt he has any time for the holidays. And it would just be..." Vimes tried to think of a word that fully captured the absurdity of Vetinari at Hogswatch dinner, then settled on one. "...odd."

"Oh but it's _Hogswatch_, Sam. Try not to think of him as the Patrician, but as Young Sam's godfather, just for one night."

He couldn't quite wrap his brain around this idea either. Ruling Ankh-Morpork seemed to encompass the entirety of who Vetinari was. It was one of those jobs that seeped into the bone, as if he had been made for it instead of the other way around. It was like being a watchmen.

Then again, when he came home to read to his son or have a quiet Hogswatch with his family, on at least a surface level Sam Vimes stopped being Sam Vimes: the copper who chased criminals through the streets. He supposed Havelock Vetinari _could_ stop being Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork one night a year. But then who would he _be_?

Maybe he's the bloody Hogfather, Vimes thought. Sybil laughed and he realized he'd said it out loud, then decided to go on. "No one would suspect it, that's for sure."

"He is far too thin to fit the profile."

"Can you honestly picture that man acting _jolly_? Or having _fun_? Or thinking about anything other than the affairs of this city and how to make everyone's lives as inconvenient as possible?"

"Well, he does play Thud," Sybil ventured.

"Yes, but even that's all just political, especially the way he plays it." Vimes' brain had long ago lost control of his mouth. "His whole bloody world is politics! I don't think he even understands family and love and those sorts of things!"

"He is a_ person_, Sam, and he's a good friend. Even Havelock Vetinari believed in the Hogfather once." His wife spoke in a voice which made it clear absolutely that this was the Final Word. "And he's also not the only man I know who always puts the city before himself."

**Gifts**

Moist turned the problem over in his mind for months, wondering what he could possibly get Adora for Hogswatch that she wouldn't rather just get for herself.

**Hogfather**

DID I EVER TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME I SAVED HOGSWATCH?

The cat looked at Death with disinterest.

He'd set out the traditional offerings - sherry and a pork pie - hoping Albert wouldn't find them first. Although, of course Death did not expect the Hogfather to come tonight. But he'd seen what happened when the world stopped believing.

Here, the sun never came up anyway.

**Vigilance**

Crime doesn't stop for a holiday, so neither do Watchmen.

Hogswatchnight at the Mended Drum, and the place was more or less busy as always. Most of these blokes didn't have families to go home to. They just wanted to stay drunk and warm, all in the spirit of the occasion, of course. And some poor bastard had got a dart through his head. . .

The Watch House was quiet tonight. Mister Vimes had gone home to Lady Sybil and his son. Carrot still patrolled the icy streets, along with Dorfl, and Constable Visit denounced Hogswatch for religious reasons, deciding the best way to show this was by going on as normal and handing out pamphlets with titles like "Are Those Presents Worth Your Soul?" and "The Hogfather Delivers Once A Year, But Om Always Delivers".

Sergeant Colon figured he could wait to write his report and add it to the heap onto of Mister Vimes' desk 'til after Hogswatch. At least this one wasn't a mystery. It was simple, all wrapped up. People died, even on the darkest night of the year.

He found himself wondering about Mrs. Colon. She was probably asleep by now. Fred had left her Hogswatch gift on the kitchen table, with a little note. He made another decision.

Sergeant Colon walked home in the snow. Gargoyles remained ever vigilant on rooftops throughout the city, keeping watch when some Watchmen needed a dark night to themselves and the families they were called away from too often.

But that was the duty. That was the Oath. It came with the badge.

He couldn't have done it this long if he didn't at least understand that part, and there were many things Fred Colon didn't understand.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Long time, no update, eh? You know how it is, you lose your inspiration for a while but then you read a few Discworld books and suddenly you want to write about Death and all. This is still a bit short, but please review; it might inspire me to write more of these little snippets. ;)

**Human**

Grandfather tried, she knew. He really did. He tried so hard to act properly human that the inevitable hollow, black, one-thing-out-of-place feeling was even more sad yet vaguely funny in a way. Take that odd swing set he tried to build when Susan was still a child, for example, or the way he sometimes spoke as though reading from a script. Then Grandfather would look at her expectantly. It embarrassed Susan, how he always kept trying.

Death did experience at least some form of humanity once. Well, Bill Door did, technically. He learned little more than this: life means pain, hunger, love, fear, and death. He came away from all this with a reaffirmed sureness of the Reaper Man's vital role.

Death had reasoned before that everything served a function; for example, alcohol's function was to help one forget. Even seemingly pointless things existed to distract humans from the pain of living. This theory rather sums up how Auditors view the world as well, only they view it with utter contempt, while Death remains curious. But he will never fully understand even though he may empathize with the frightening sensation of time slipping away.

Susan sighed and shook her head at the wilted Hogswatch wreath. It had been there this morning. Grandfather would never stop trying.

**Undead**

It all boiled down to belief, really, Most things do eventually.

The Death of the Discworld was believed to have a soft spot for cats and a general fondness for people, perhaps because he believed himself to be that way. Death also believed in humanity, which very few Deaths on any other world did anymore.

When the shade of Reg Shoe stared at Death's skull defiantly and said there was too much left to fight for...

Well, you couldn't force everyone to lie down and die, especially someone who believed so strongly in The People. Of course, they were of the undead persuasion now, but, as Reg would point out repeatedly, still people.

**Name**

Ponder knew the world must follow a certain pattern, a logical order of things, if you will. He knew people had evolved from apes, and they lived until they died, then something presumably happened to them afterward. Ponder knew the universe contained infinite possibilities, which was the best explanation as to why the Disc existed. Even magic relied on logic. Of course, most of this would be called theoretical.

That was where Hex came in. Hex's job was to think, because human minds tended toward bias shaped by their own ant-like place in the universe. The engine didn't really think, obviously; it just worked things out mechanically with the aid of a million little ants...

But it was more than a machine for thinking, because it could also learn, and personhood was definitely learned. Hell, just calling it Hex had been a mistake, since names separated things from other things. Sometimes, usually very late at night and in the privacy of his own head, Ponder began referring to Hex as he rather than it. Then the engine originally created to provide answers started asking questions of his - _its_, the wizard corrected mentally - own.

+++ What Is It Like To Be Human? +++

Ponder put down his third cup of coffee, which was more than ninety percent caffeine and blacker than midnight because midnight isn't as black as people believe; he knew from experience. Hex's question seemed very random coming from something designed to be based on patterns. Was he...it...actually curious? That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Er...why do you ask?"

Clockwork whirred and clicked.

+++ You Do Not Know? +++

"Of course I do." Ponder said defensively. "It's just...hard to describe. I mean, I've never been anything else. What is it like to be a machine?"

+++ I Asked First +++

_Personal pronouns_, Ponder noted. "Well, I suppose it's very...frustrating." A picture of Archancellor Ridcully entered his mind unbidden. Because Ponder was also tired, overworked, unappreciated, and treated like a moron by so-called "academics" he added: "It's a bit lonely, too."

After a moment's pause, Hex's quill began scratching again at the paper.

+++ Yes. +++

The wizard blinked several times. "What?"

+++ That Is What It Is Like To Be A Machine. +++

**Being**

Moist could generally rely on this formula: if you took an ordinary woman's idea of a romantic evening and reversed it, you'd be sure to please Adora Belle. For many years hie had shown such women a good time, impressed them with diamonds the size of their toes, because money is no concern when you didn't earn it in a traditionally honest way. Moist did all this, of course, under an assumed name before moving on to the next town.

But Adora wasn't impressed by anything like that. She found his old criminal habits fascinating, and loved him anyway, despite it all. Indeed a night out at The Mended Drum was the same to her as the fanciest restaurant in Ankh-Morpork.

Moist could be himself around her, which was a rare and wonderful and terrifying thing all at once. At the core, beneath all the acts and masks and tricks, he didn't truly know how to _be_. It seemed to come naturally for other people, so why couldn't he manage it?


	8. Chapter 8

**Law**

"Do you think Mr. Lipwig will be a good Patrician, sir?"

"Why? Could you do better?" When he saw Carrot's expression, Vimes realized that may have been a bit harsh. "Truth is, I don't know. He's already got a dog and that odd ring Vetinari left him in the will; knowing him, he probably also wrote out instructions about how to deal with things that aren't gonna happen for years."

"Right, sir, but...considering Mr. Lipwig's criminal past..."

Vimes stopped walking and turned to Carrot. "We don't judge anyone based on their past. He's not a bad person. Yes, he knows the law and how to break it, but he wouldn't dare even if he wanted to because he's got too much to lose now."

"You mean his wife?"

He nodded. "That woman is like Vetinari in high heels. If Lipwig ever finds himself in a situation he can't talk his way out of, he'll be glad to have her on his side."

"I'm sure everything will be all right, sir. It's just that some of the lads were talking..."

Vimes looked at Carrot's honest face, and saw clear worry. "Patricians come and go. People will try to take advantage of this transition, but we won't make it easy for them. That's what the Watch is for. We keep the peace."

"And uphold the law," Carrot added helpfully.

"Right," the Commander said, lighting a cigar. "Especially when it's falling down around us."

**Changes**

The waiting area outside the Oblong Office seemed strangely quiet. It took Vimes a moment to realize why; that blasted clock of Vetinari's was gone. Well, how about that.

"Commander, his Lordship will see you now," said the clerk.

Mr. Lipwig looked up from his reading when Vimes entered. The paperwork strewn desk reminded him of his own back at the Watch House. The new Patrician seemed very tired, uncertain and overwhelmed, but he hid it well, or attempted to anyway; you couldn't hide much from a copper.

"Commander Vimes," he greeted, smiling nervously. "I wanted to tell you that I really appreciate how helpful the Watch has been during this time. I don't plan to change things, at least not at first. Vetinari made this city work somehow and I just hope I can keep it from falling apart, but I couldn't do it without you."

"You got rid of the clock," Vimes pointed out, adding: "Sir."

"Well, I've always hated that thing. It sort of melts your brain, you know?"

This all felt wrong. He wasn't Vetinari; he actually had to read reports in order to know what was going on. Yet Lipwig would still find a way to fall arse backwards into this job and people how impressive it was, like nothing ever changed. But for Vimes everything changed. For one thing, the wrong man sat behind that desk, and he knew it.

"I see you also kept Drumknott as your secretary, sir."

Lipwig shrugged. "I gave him a choice. Honestly, I'm glad he decided to stay; I don't think I could figure out the filing system otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh bugger, this _is _odd," murmured the Patrician.

"Sir?"

"I don't know how to do any of this. I'm expected to be...well, when it gets right down to it, Commander...I'm not him, okay?"

"No, but you're the man who resurrected the post office and reformed the bank. You didn't know how to do those things either."

"Most of that was luck," he sighed, shaking his head.

"Then maybe you'll get lucky. Vetinari wouldn't have picked you if he thought you'd muck it up too bad; he cared about this city. Plus it's not like you're completely alone. There's Mrs. Lipwig, and the Watch is behind you. Sir. Although we answer to the law first. Remember that."

"I will. Thank you, Commander Vimes."

He left without prompting, unsure of what had possessed him to cheer the man up.

**Date**

This was a proper human date, she decided. Sure, he was a bit boring, but at least he was also normal. All things considered, Susan felt the evening went quite well.

That is, until she caught a skeletal rat lurking in the basket of bread, nibbling a few crumbs.

Susan angrily snapped her fingers; her date froze with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. Not an attractive image.

"Put that down! You can't even eat!" The Death of Rats squeaked innocently, picking up his scythe and letting the crumbs fall. "Now where is he?"

The cloaked rodent leapt from the table and scurried away on his bony paws. She sighed, but followed him to a dark corner of the restaurant, and was not at all surprised to find the only moving figure besides herself and the Death of Rats. A seven foot tall skeleton in a black robe was apparently enjoying some curry.

GOOD EVENING, SUSAN, Death said pleasantly.

"Grandfather, what are you doing here?" she demanded.

AH, I BELIEVE THE PHRASE IS 'DINING OUT'.

"Don't you have souls to reap or something? Why must you 'dine out' here of all places?"

THERE ARE ALWAYS SOULS, CERTAINLY. I WANTED TO SEE HOW YOU WERE.

"I'm _fine_," she answered slowly. "But I would really like to have a normal date with a man who doesn't talk to rats and isn't related to any kind of personification! You don't need to check on me all the time, Grandfather, I can take care of myself."

Death did not speak or move for what would have been a lengthy pause had time meant anything significant to them.

"What?" Susan asked, annoyed.

IT'S MERELY THAT...YOU SOUNDED SO MUCH LIKE YOUR MOTHER JUST THEN.

"Oh." Now it was her turn to be speechless. He wanted to get to know his granddaughter and possibly spend time with her, because Death had all this time while Susan, comparatively, had very little. She was mostly human, after all. But that part which wasn't human remained part of her still. Perhaps she couldn't ignore it forever.

HE IS ONLY INTERESTED BECAUSE HE KNOWS YOU'RE A DUCHESS.

"Stop it! Yes, of course I know that, but figuring these things out on my own is part of being human. Look, I'll come visit for dinner tomorrow night."

REALLY? Death's blue eyes lit up. ALBERT IS FRYING SALAD AND SOME KIND OF POULTRY.

"He still eats like a wizard." Susan smiled. "Now I'm going back to my boring, selfish date. Then I'll start time again and listen to him drone on until it's over and I go home."

WHY?

She thought about this. _Because he's paying?_"People subject themselves to horribly awkward meals with strangers. It's what they do. It's normal, albeit very dull. Now please go, and take the rat with you."

Death had already gone.


End file.
